For the Love of Acne

Today I saw a guy with an enormous zit on his face. I literally had to fight the urge to reach out and pop it. Call me crazy, but I love popping zits – even lancing and squeezing the puss out of cystic acne. Something about it just fascinates me. It didn’t help that the boy was absolutely adorable. I have a soft spot for hot men with minor acne problems. So naturally the urge to pop his glorious zit was also combined with the urge to make out with him. I could see us – in the throes of passion – our hands exploring each other’s bodies – mine discovering great mounds of acne – waiting to be excavated, waiting to be purged.

This activity, unfortunately, is frowned upon in public, and it is especially frowned upon when the other person is a total stranger. Thanks a lot Puritans... I, therefore, decided to keep my distance and quickly burst my romantic fantasy bubble. Maybe someday I’ll be able to pop my boyfriend’s zits. That is to say, maybe I’ll be able to pop another boyfriend’s zits.

An ex of mine (he’d die if I used his real name, so we’ll call him Brandon) had the worst bacne I had ever seen. If you have never heard the term bacne, it is a contraction of the words back and acne, a catch-all for all those gross lumbar zits that so many people seem to be afflicted with. When I saw him naked, he apologized for his acne, his infected pores, and I could tell he had struggled with what he saw as a burden. I told Brandon not to worry, that I actually was fascinated by acne. He gave me a look that I’m sure most of you are giving your computers at this very moment. It was a mixture of intrigue, disbelief, and the creeps. After a few minutes of convincing, he let me attempt to pop his zits and clear his blackheads.

After gathering my accoutrements (that’s a fancy word for tweezers and a straight pin), I began to inspect my canvas. Then I found it. There before me, slightly to the left of center and between his shoulder blades, shown a large carbuncle with several deep-pocked black heads staring back at me. It rose out of his back like a marble under a sheet. I read the puss filled knot like sick giant Braille; the message: “pop me.” I was in Paradise.

Despite the message, the carbuncle proved a difficult opponent. At first I attempted standard squeezing. One would expect that a giant engorged carbuncle with three angry black eyes would burst with any amount of pressure applied, but not this one. This one had been there a while; it was comfortable; it was settled; it required extreme measures. Brandon winced in pain, and I promised to be more careful. I braced my hands further apart in order to gain more force focused on the deep-set knot. The flesh rippled toward me, and with that forced smooching sound that accompanies the breaking of every zit’s seal – the contents began to spill forth.

The puss was yellow, waxy, sticky, thick, and felt like tar. It was the strangest puss I have ever encountered. It didn’t burst out like most zits; it was like giving birth. The pores dilated with each push – lurching forth the crowning puss to the surface. After I had milked the now flattened carbuncle, I grabbed my straight pin. My mother taught me long ago that if you carefully use a straight pin, you can gently scrape clean the insides of an engorged pore. So off I ventured into the three caverns that once contained the contents of the carbuncle. Gently I probed the pores, bringing to the surface the final remnants of yellow sticky tar. Brandon thanked me. The carbuncle had been bothering him for a long time. Now it was gone, and we could get on with business. Or so he thought…

Several days later (maybe it was a week – the memory is a little hazy with the timeline), Brandon and I were making out. Soon our clothes came off, and it became clear that more intimate adult behaviors were just around the corner. As he began kissing my neck, I got a clear view of his back. There, where the carbuncle had been, was another deep-set blackhead. It was a carbuncle in the making, and it was going to be mine. His lips met my mouth again, and my hand began to search his back for the prize. When my hand found the blackhead, my fingers began to squeeze. At first, Brandon mistook that for me massaging his back, but soon – he pushed me back breaking our embrace.

“Are you trying to pop my zit?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” I answered sheepishly.

“Could you not do that while we’re making out?”

“I’ll try,” I answered, “but it’s there and it wants to be popped.”

Of course I failed. The temptation of the zit proved too strong. We were making out again, and once he began kissing my neck, I could see the blackhead. It was calling to me. Subconsciously my hand crept back up his back. He was not amused. Eventually, after several weeks, he became accustomed to my unusual habits (that one at least; we won’t discuss my singing to him while he was on the toilet; he wasn’t too amused with that one either).

Over the course of our relationship, I would clear his back zits often, as well as acne in other locales. But alas, the love of acne is not strong enough to keep people together. We really weren’t compatible in many ways. It would be nice to find a guy though, who wasn’t totally creeped out by my urge to pop zits. It’s one of my many eccentricities. It’s too bad, however, that amazing zits are not points of flirtation. If they were, I totally would have hit on the cute guy with the magnificent specimen.

I’m not sure where my unusual fascination comes from. I really enjoy the sound acne makes when it bursts, and the puss is well – so disgusting that it is utterly enthralling. I’ve done a touch of research, and it seems that the fascination is normal. It’s normal to want to purge the foreign from the body. I’m not sure if it’s normal to want to make out with men that need a little purging, but to each his own. So stop judging. I’m sure you’re weird too.